Page 44 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Guilty heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘I just meant the honey might integrate better into—’

‘No.’ He set his glass down with deliberate care. ‘That phrase. “Sweetness into the bones”. Where did you hear that?’

Molly’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d slipped again. Aoife often said this when describing anything that needed depth other than surface charm.

‘My grandmother again,’ she replied, striving for casual truth. ‘Used it sometimes when she baked or cooked. Said there was a difference between something sweet on the tongue and sweetness that went deeper.’

Jack’s expression shifted, giving way to something more complex – surprise, recognition, and a curious softening around his eyes. ‘My own grandmother said the exact same thing,’ he said quietly. ‘She died before I was born, but Patrick, who knew her well, told me she used to say it when adding honey to an apple tart filling.’

Molly forced a chuckle. ‘Must’ve been a saying for that generation,’ she suggested easily.

‘Maybe.’ But his eyes remained thoughtful, studying her face in the lantern light as if searching for something. The suspicion that had so characterized their early interactions had transformed into something else.

‘Those Crest bastards have been circling for years, you know,’ he said then, naming the corporation with palpable disdain. His posture changed as he spoke, shoulders squaring defensively. ‘Another offer came in this week. Less than what they offered last year, mind you.’

‘But you’re still not considering it,’ Molly said, making it a statement rather than a question. ‘Even after everything you just told me about the finances.’

‘Would you sell your family’s soul for a price?’ Jack countered, though without heat. ‘That’s what Goldenridge is – not just land or trees or some business. It’s five generations of Flynns pouring their lives into this soil.’

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its defensive edge, revealing the vulnerability beneath. Jack’s gaze met hers, naked fear visible behind the pride. ‘Patrick might be from a different line of the family, but he trusted me, mostly because he had no heir of his own. Yet I could be the Flynn who loses it all. The one who couldn’t adapt, couldn’t find a way through. The one they’ll talk about generations from now, if there are any Flynns left to talk, that is.’

The weight of his admission hung between them, heavier than the moisture-laden air.

Molly saw Jack Flynn clearly then; not just the stubborn apple farmer who’d distrusted her almost on sight, but a man carrying a burden passed down through generations, terrified of being the weak link that broke the chain.

‘What would happen – honestly?’ she asked quietly. ‘If Crest Beverages took over?’

Jack’s laugh held no humor. ‘First, they’d clear most of the heritage tress. Not profitable enough, too labor-intensive. Replace them with five or six commercial types that ship well and look pretty under supermarket lights.’ His hand clenched around his glass. ‘This press house would become a “quaint attraction” where tourists could take selfies while seasonal workers demonstrated “traditional methods” for show while the real production happened in a sterile factory in Dublin.’

She nodded, well believing it.

‘Within a year or two, there’d be nothing left of what makes this place special,’ he spat. ‘Just another corporate showcase with branded merchandise and manufactured authenticity.’

The bitterness in his voice caught at something deep in Molly’s chest. This wasn’t just business troubles; this was a man fighting for something he believed in with his whole heart.

‘If it helps, I could work up a broadstroke marketing plan for you to take to the bank meeting, based on what I’ve seen so far?’ His back was to her now as he bent to examine a barrel’s spigot, but she caught the slight pause in his movements. ‘I don’t need any financial details or anything like that,’ she assured him, in case his suspicions about her being involved with Crest might again be raised. ‘Just a standard document illustrating a few expansion suggestions that wouldn’t cost the earth, but would generate solid returns. Banks love projections.’

‘You would do that?’ Jack asked, surprised.

She shrugged. ‘Of course. Told you I was here to help, remember?’

‘Wouldn’t something like that take a while though?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘The meeting’s this Friday.’

‘Not at all. This is the kind of stuff I do in my sleep,’ she assured him. ‘A couple of hours on the laptop, and voila.’

Jack turned to face her fully, his expression more vulnerable than she’d yet seen it. The lantern cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, highlighting the weariness etched around his eyes. ‘I … I’d appreciate that. I think I need all the help I can get.’

The rain’s rhythm changed, becoming less frantic but more persistent, a steady drumming. Before she could stop herself, Molly stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and placed her hand lightly on Jack’s forearm. His skin was warm beneath the sleeve of his shirt, muscles tensed with the strain of carrying his burden alone.

‘You won’t lose this place, Jack,’ she soothed softly, the words emerging with a conviction that surprised her. ‘Not if there’s anything I can do to help.’ The touch lasted only seconds, but she felt him relax slightly beneath her fingers, the simple connection breaching defenses that financial stress had reinforced.

Then she withdrew her hand, suddenly conscious of the boundary she’d crossed.

Jack’s eyes followed the movement, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

Keen to cover her embarrassment, Molly instinctively defaulted to more practical concerns. ‘And in the meantime,’ she continued, her spine straightening with renewed determination, ‘there’s the Harvest Festival to look forward to. Let’s create enough buzz that even the bank will take notice.’

Jack’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Social media can’t fix structural problems, though.’